


Bucky Barnes and the Very Bad No Good Terrible Day

by livink



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), M/M, its gonna be a looooooong chaptered fic, we're rewriting cacw (pronounced cacaw to ease the tension)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livink/pseuds/livink
Summary: It's a good day, he even got some great looking plums to taste.Until he catches the headline on the local newspaper and everything turns upside down.And there's Stark pulling up in a fancy car, yelling  at him to "get the fuck inside!"
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 97
Kudos: 396





	1. Stark

He started making the list in his head way before he starts writing it down. One piece of paper - rubbed raw from the edge of his pink palm, one blot of coffee stain and a few splatters of fruit juices – separate from the thick book of memory he keeps on him all the time.

The paper stays in his pants’ pocket. Even when he sleeps, it stays, both near his skin and behind his lids.

They’re dates, never names. Hydra had never been known for generosity. Discretion was the word they operated within. The soldier had never received the names of his targets. Always, his mission entailed dates, venues and the ingrained faces of their enemies just before they deployed him.

So, he had a list of dates, faces and details of each mission he’d carried out haunting his every waking hour.

He couldn’t keep still; he had to do something. That was mostly the reason why he started looking into them. If not punishment, at least he was less cowardly of sneaking a look at the consequences of his action.

Hence, he started making a connection. Simple threads, albeit bloodied, led him to names and addresses.

He found himself responsible for a number of mysterious political assassinations, then some accidents and a few unsolved disappearances.

 _Kennedy, Dupuy, Baxtor, Stark, Akihiro,_ and many more.

-

To be honest, he doesn’t know what exactly is his motive. He aches for closure, but the how, still remains elusive.

Maybe that’s why he starts tracking them down.

One by one, he visits the kin of every one of his victims.

He hides, sneaks a look and two, his lips tremble with unsaid apologies, always, always he wishes he could leave a note but he never knows what to write so even that doesn’t happen.

Eventually, he settles to watch them until he’s sure they’re safe and then he leaves. Heart heavy – always heavier than the time before.

Kennedy, Dupuy and Baxtor – each with their own fortune and power – Akihiro had no one, then there is Stark.

He waits on Stark until he is done with everyone else. One, because it isn’t very hard to keep watch of Stark – billionaire, superhero and an all-around powerful man, Stark is always on or featured on some kind of media.

Mostly, it is because Stark is strongly affiliated with the Avengers that is being led by the very man he is running away from.

Thus, Stark is last.

And appropriately so, because Stark being a Stark is barely in a situation where he is safe. Sure, he has an army of bodyguards traipsing all of his paths but the danger the man faces in his daily life goes beyond them.

Stark is a superhero after all. A superhero, with supervillains aiming at his back.

Stark is a superhero; he can dodge a bullet and aim a thousand at the same time. He can save his own skin from weapons.

But conscience, those are of a different kind. The same kind that he is way too familiar for his own liking and the kind that Stark bleeds from every minute.

It is essentially what makes him falter from his usual routine. _Check, ensure, keep clear_ is no longer a protocol that applies to Stark.

His rhythm changes and with that his thoughts and intentions and later, he’ll come to bare the consequences.

-

He stays behind the stage; a card hanging down his neck, a hoodie with its hood up his head, black gloves and white sneakers and his inherent ability to never get noticed.

The crowd goes wild; claps and shouts while he stays in the shadows as Stark exits the stage.

“Wow, Wow. That uh… that took my breath away. Oh, Tony! So, generous. So much money! Wow! Out of curiosity… will any portion of that grant be made available to faculty? I know, “Ooh, gross,” but hear me out. I have got this killer idea for a self-cooking hot dog. Basically, chemical detonator embedded -,”

But Stark isn’t listening. At least he doesn’t look like he is.

Brown eyes dart from side to side as he circles his left wrist with his right hand; two twists clockwise and one anti.

His gaze sweeps out the area, broad and smooth, not even a single hesitation when it comes to that closed corner drowned in darkness.

Then Stark speaks, “Restroom’s this way, yeah?”

The man stops his rambling, “Yeah. Embedded in the meat shaft,” he chuckles nervously.

Someone else approaches, “Mr. Stark, I am so sorry about the teleprompter. I didn’t know Miss Potts had cancelled. They didn’t have time to fix it.”

He watches the fall in Stark’s face just as it quickly reverts, “It’s… fine. I’ll be right back.” Stark brushes her off, already marching away.

He follows. The echo of that eager man following down the hallway, “We’ll catch up later.”

Following Stark isn’t as easy as it had been with the others. He has to be extra careful, slinking along the darker paths, pausing to linger longer near empty classrooms, sneaking into some every time Stark looks over his shoulder and relying heavily on his ears and nose during those instance to retrace Stark's steps.

Heavy steps, light calculated taps on the linoleum and the scent of freshly cut grass with an underlying hint of sandalwood.

He comes to an end of a hallway, pausing to hear the slight drag of Stark’s shoes, a circle around before they become lighter.

Two long purposeful strides and he holds his breath when they stop.

“That was nice,” A woman’s voice comes through to his left. Approximately fifteen feet away, he notes. “What you did for those young people.”

He plasters his back to the wall, head leaning closer to the diverging hallway after a cautious glance to the other end, making sure no one nearby notices him.

“Ah, they deserve it. Plus, it helps ease my conscience,” Stark says. A muted rustle of fabrics tells him that Stark’s flattening out his jacket.

A gaggle of laughter from the other end distracts him and he forces himself to relax; lets his back lean more carelessly against the wall as he pretends to look at his hand as the couple stumbles their way down the hallway, shrugging off his lone presence.

The woman speaks again, drawing back his attention, “They say there’s a correlation between generosity and guilt. But if you’ve got the money… break as many eggs as you like. Right?”

He blinks.

“Are you going up?” Stark asks after a heavy pause. His voice is one note higher, frailer.

“I’m right where I want to be.” The woman says, conviction steady in her tone.

All his muscles tense up, red light glaring as he breathes in, long and silent and takes a step closest to the edge. He hears a slap of flesh and makes a grab for the throw knife he keeps, carefully slipped behind his belt.

“Okay, okay,” Stark sounds a little out of breath. “Hey! Sorry. It’s an occupational hazard.”

He takes a quick step in and out, a rushed but calculated glance to ensure Stark was out of harm - and he was – just a second away before Stark looks over his shoulder right where he was.

But the woman starts speaking again stealing Stark’s attention right back, “I work for the State Department. Human Resources. I know it’s boring, but it enabled me to raise a son. I’m very proud of what he grew up to be. His name was Charlie Spencer. You murdered him. In Sokovia. Not that it matters in the least to you. You think you fight for us. You just fight for yourself.”

He swallows, throat clamping painfully around the effort as he takes a step back, and two. Back flat again against the wall as he blinks away the images of his many missions.

“Who’s going to avenge my son, Stark?” The woman asks, anguish burning under her forcefully calm tone. “He’s dead… and I blame you.” She whispers with unshrouded finality before marching away.

-

He doesn’t sleep. He’s afraid to sleep.

But sometimes his body meets its end and it shuts down. Sometimes, his heavy lids fall and it’s like the curtain has finally come down, bringing clarity with it.

And the nightmare begins, it dances and sings; all the years he’d been deployed, all the names of his targets, their screams when he’d ended them. And the nightmare claws; ripping agony from every cell that makes him.

He doesn’t sleep. Because when he does, he dies.

-

The woman from the convention haunts him. More so, her words.

He feels them as if she’d thrown them to his own face. Not Stark’s.

It’s word after word what he’d imagined his own victim’s family would tell him. All of his nightmares come to live and it isn’t even him under the sentence.

It’s why he sticks by. Why he keeps following Stark when he should’ve high tailed and left.

Because it should have been him facing those words. Instead it had been Stark; someone who tries every second to wipe the blood of his ledger while his own drips with century’s old.

It should have been him. So, he stays.

-

One night, he wakes up. Body still shaking, the thin cotton sheet he’d draped over the mattress soaked wet.

And he wonders how Stark is sleeping.

-

He keeps his distance.

On days when Stark stays inside, safe with no guns aimed at his back, he wanders the neighbourhood and buys himself food.

One such day, his eyes catches the news playing behind a display window.

“- killed during a confrontation between the Avengers and a group of mercenaries in Lagos, Nigeria -,”

His breath catches at the building on fire. Its fall after shedding multiple debris taking many lives beneath it in one quick, merciless second.

He blinks. The plums feeling heavier in his grasp from when he’d left the store.

-

He steps on a fence that night.

One blow of luck, he’ll land safe while one blow of bad luck and he’ll be caught.

But the urge had been there since last afternoon when he’d seen the news. He has to know, so he steps closer than his usual distance towards Stark.

And he gets caught.

-

“I don’t see the good yet, but I’m willing to bet you’re the infamous Bucky Barnes. Cap’s buddy, pal and… whatever else,” Stark flicks a wrist, shrewd gaze tracing a circle around him as he paces.

Ever moving, ever restless. It’s past three in the morning and Stark is as sleepless as himself.

“He’s not here.” Stark speaks up, a little louder after a brief pause. “In case you’re out of updates, the Avengers moved, new headquarter and stuff,” He circles his left wrist: the same two clockwise and one anti.

The familiarity makes him want to smile but he bites it back.

“If you’re looking for him, I have to know. Cause you see, Cap _is_ a friend no matter how the only common thing we share is a constant flow of disagreements. So, are you planning to kill him or just a friendly visit?” Another two sets of twists and three quick taps of his bare foot on the floor and he drops down to sit on the armrest of the closest chair. “I don’t mind the latter, but the first,” he tsks disapprovingly, fixing his eyes on him.

Seconds pass as he gathers his words, or tried to, before Starks exhales aloud and he blurts out in a rush, “I know where Steve is.”

Then he closes his eyes, ducking his head as he breathes in, “I’m not looking for him.”

He hears the muffled _tat tat tat_ of Stark’s index over his chest as loud as any taps. Doesn’t even have to look to confirm.

“Why are you here?” The question sharp and forward, devoid of all Stark’s signature many worded many sentences.

Something that demands for a straight forward answer which he cannot provide.

Instead, he hangs his head in shame as Stark studies him from his perch on the armrest. The bright lights of his living room reflecting sharply from its glossy tiles.

He doesn’t fidget – never been the type to give away his thoughts and emotion. Simply stands still and lets Stark look.

“What do you want?” Stark changes his question. Arms coming up to wrap defensively around his torso.

“Nothing,” He answers truthfully.

But Stark doesn’t know him – doesn’t know what is truth and what is not when it comes to him – so it’s only fair when he says, “I find that hard to believe.”

“I intent no harm.” He assures.

“There’s a knife behind every single joint in your body and you want me to believe that statement?” There’s a tilt to his head as he argues. An easy airy quality of knowing, close to arrogance but not really. Maybe a tease? Maybe not…

“There’s an array of weapon in this building, does that mean you intent to harm the city?”

Whatever easiness that had crept up Stark’s face vanishes in an instant. He wishes he could take his word back, but again, not really.

“They’re for defence,” he reassures calmly.

Stark shifts, arms down, one wrist wrapped around another; _twist, twist, twist._ “You haven’t answered my first question. What are you here?”

“Lost,” he lies.

Stark snorts, an amused smirk pulling up his face, changing his entire feature from exhausted and worn to spring falls. It’s attractive, the kind of attractiveness that pulls you in and makes it hard to look away.

He blinks.

“Nice try, Red October,” Stark mutters, standing up. “Look, I’m gonna give Steve a call okay?”

“No,” He snaps. A little too harsh to make Stark tense, right fingers parting around left wrist, index lifted up to tap at his wrist watch.

He eyes Stark’s hands warily, “I’m not -,” _Ready_ , is the word, but often times courage fails the simplest tasks. Instead, he swallows and looks up, meeting steady brown eyes, “No,” he pleads.

Stark lowers his hands, makes a show of punching them into his pants, “I’m sorry but I have to,” he says, but there’s a deliberate heaviness to his tone, “But I have no control over your action, decisions, etcetera, if you know what I mean,” Stark drawls, looking pointedly at his unbound hands and he gets it.

“No, you don’t,” He parrots understandingly to Stark.

“Uh, huh,” Stark turns away dismissively, demeanour shifting as he orders, “Friday, let’s give Cap a wake-up call.”


	2. Barnes

Falling out of space was bad.

Tony thought it was the worst he’d ever felt in his entire life; lost his sleep, lost the peace of his mind, the control of his very body.

But he was wrong. Ultron was the worst.

Because at least, after New York, Tony had been enthused to start over.

_The clean slate protocol._

That was what it had been. A second chance at making things right. Building a new home, a new repertoire, a new team – _starting over._

Only things went so wrong so fast that he was soon punching a hole through _the_ bottom into a brand-new bottom. 

And that fall put into perspective everything he felt after his first fall. That conviction he wore with an arrogance that he’d _never_ fall again; it was now burnt.

Yet, Tony’d do anything to avoid another fall. Because that’s instinct; purely survival. It’s what once drove our ancestors to light the first ember; what it takes to keep Tony’s broken heart beating.

-

“Tony. You’re being uncharacteristically non-hyper-verbal,” Natasha comments, the underlying fondness doesn’t miss his ears.

His head pulsates, even as he massages his temple.

“It’s because he’s already made up his mind,” Steve replies, unsurprised.

Tony casts a withering look at him, right hand falling down from where it has been covering his face, “Boy, you know me so well,” He snipes, standing up. The sudden motion making the localized pulsation spread throughout his head, squeezing and he winces, rubbing the back of his head.

“Actually, I’m nursing an electromagnetic headache,” He walks to the kitchen and grabs a mug, eyes immediately going to the disgusting clumps of brown mess. “That’s what’s going on, Cap. It’s just _pain_. It’s discomfort. Who’s putting coffee grounds in the disposal? Am I running a bed and breakfast for a biker gang?” He turns to face them, placing his phone in a basket and taps it.

Everyone’s focus trains on the image of Charles Spencer projected mid-air. And Tony tells them about him.

He grabs the Advil in the process, chucks it down his throat and follows it with some coffee. “There’s no decision-making process here. We need to be put in check!” He tells them, “Whatever that form takes, I’m game. If we can’t accept limitations, if we’re boundary-less, we’re no better than the bad guys.”

He sees the way Natasha processes the information and the way Wanda’s head hangs. He looks at Rhodey, Sam and Vision.

“Tony, someone dies on your watch, you don’t give up,” Steve placates.

“Who said we’re giving up?” Tony asks him. No, he’s not giving up. He’s just facing the song they should have faced since everything had begun.

“We are if we’re not taking responsibility of our actions. This document just shifts the blames,” Steve argues.

Tony straightens up because yes to the first, but the second; what?

But Rhodey interrupts, “I’m sorry. Steve. That – that is dangerously arrogant. This is the United Nations we’re talking about. It’s not the World Security Council, it’s not SHIELD, it’s not HYDRA.”

Point, Tony concedes, patting down his tie.

“No, but it’s run by people with agendas, and agendas change,” Steve presses.

“That’s good,” Tony jumps in. “That’s why I’m here. When I realized what my weapons were capable of in the wrong hands, I shut it down and stop manufacturing.”

“Tony, you _chose_ to do that,” Steve meets his eyes, the blue even bluer with conviction shining through them. Tony would know that. Had them shining through his once upon an Ultron as well.

“If we sign this, we surrender our right to choose. What if this panel sends us some where we don’t think we should go? What is there is some where we need to go, and they don’t let us? We may not be perfect, but the safest hands are still our own,” Steve finishes.

“If we don’t do this now, it’s gonna be _done_ to us later,” Tony addresses him directly, letting his voice thaw, his tone gentle. Steve has to know that. This is 117 countries vs… them. “That’s the fact. That won’t be pretty.”

“You’re saying they’ll come for me,” Wanda speaks up.

That – that was absolutely not what Tony meant …

“We would protect you,” Vision pipes up before Tony could open his mouth.

“Maybe Tony’s right,” Natasha interjects and Tony perks up. She shuts him up with a look, “If we have one hand on the wheel, we can still steer. If we take it off -,”

“Aren’t you the same woman who told the government to kiss her ass a few years ago?” Sam cuts her off.

“I’m just… I’m reading the terrain,” Natasha explains. “We have made… some very public mistakes. We need to win their trust back,” She looks at him.

She knows. Of course, she would know. She’s not much different from Tony in terms of their pasts.

“Focus up,” He calls, “I’m sorry, did I just mishear you or did you agree with me?”

“Oh, I want to take it back now,” She reels, clearly teasing.

“No, no, no. You can’t retract it. Thank you. Unprecedented. Okay, case closed – I win.”

And for a stagnant second, everything seems like its lining up for the best. That they are all on the same page because that was a joke, wasn’t it? They’re joking again and that must be good.

But then, everything tilts with a buzz.

Steve checks his phone, excuses himself out and when he returns, they’re back to square one.

-

It’s the single glint of metal under the sun that catches his eyes.

“For a ghost, you’re very un-ghostly.”

And Tony wonders how Steve keeps missing this out. Just a glint, and if you look twice, it’s not there. He is fully covered but that was… there.

The man in question actually startles and Tony raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. _Really now?_

“I’m not following you.”

“Okay, stalker,” he nods, gently tugging Barnes by the crook of his elbow, shaking off the crowd behind them.

He finds an empty bar and tunnels in, “I can see that. You look too lost to be a local,” Then louder, he calls out, “Two orders of fish and chips please. One coke. On the rocks and…,”

Barnes shakes his head. Like a rusty joint, tight.

“And nothing for my friend, here.” He shoots a smile in the general direction of the counter, shaking the hood of his jacket off and tipping the mouth of his cap low.

Barnes sits still on his stool, unmoving, almost creepy if not for his rising and dipping chest.

“If you’re not following me, what’re you doing here?” He asks again. This time, stern.

This time, when Barnes hesitates, Tony doesn’t budge.

Until Barnes huffs and challenges, “Why does it matter to you?”

Tony could laugh. “In case it slipped off your mind, you’re a wanted man,” he snarls, leaning forward in their tiny circular table until they’re inches away from sharing breaths. “You got a price on your head everywhere you go. I can call on you now, with a single click and that’d be the end of you, pal.” Tony straightens up, beaming at the waitress who brings in his drink.

He thanks her once she’s done and takes a long sip.

“Why don’t you?” Barnes rasps out.

Tony puts down the glass, careful so it fits right inside the circle of his coaster and he shrugs. “Frankly? I’d like to know my answers. And you’re holding them back.”

He raps at the glass, condensation pooling around its base. A minute passes and he really, _really_ hates to repeat himself even as he’s gearing up –

“Someone I know… passed.” Barnes speaks up then.

Tony’s fingers stop, before they pick up. “And this someone is…?”

“Someone I know.” Barnes fixes him with a dark look,

And Tony wants to roll his eyes but he recalls what he’d said and cringes inwardly instead. He didn’t even offer a condolence, typical him. “Right, my bad.” he leans back in his stool, hands falling to his lap and he circles his left wrist with his right fingers. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Neither speaks for a long time after that. Tony fidgets with his fingers, then the hem of his shirt. He very well knows who the person Barnes is talking about but he doesn’t know if he wants to raise any attention to that.

The awkwardness lasts long enough for the waitress to serve up his orders.

He digs in with a smile, grease squirting out of the overdone fish fillet, fries limp but who is he to complain when he was the one who dragged them here.

“The ketchup is good, try it.” He flicks a glance at his companion.

Barnes looks away with no hurry – clearly has been staring - as Tony straightens up, wiping the grease off his mouth with a tissue ply.

“You know, you never exactly told me what you were doing outside my garage the other day.”

“I got lost.” Barnes shrugs, finally letting some of his muscles thaw.

Tony snorts. “Funny,” he points at him. “Let’s try that again,” He leans back, lowering his voice, “You’re not painting the town _red_ , are you?”

Barnes ease wipes out, “I don’t do that kind of stuff anymore,” his left-hand clenches, the whir of metals under layers of clothes muted, but not so much for Tony’s trained ears to miss the disjointedness.

He slathers a sad fry in ketchup before popping it into his mouth. “Next time you drop by, come at midnight. Midnight to one. That’s when I have free-time to fix that up,” he nods at Barnes’ left, waving for the bill.

He tips the waitress extra – not her fault the food sucks. “Keep our date and I’ll show you a better fry up. Sorry bout this,”

He pulls the hood back on. “Seriously, the ketchup is good. Give it a try.”

-

The next day when he pulls up to the church, he stays in the car.

There’s a hooded figure ten feet away, hunched under a shady tree. Even if FRIDAY isn’t rattling the name into his ear, he already knows who that is yesterday.

He stays until the casket goes down. Six feet under and he wonders how that’d feel when his own time comes.


	3. Sh*t

He leaves Stark in England and boards the train to East.

He watches the greenery pass and thinks about Stark. Recalls that conversation they had in the heart of London, the sleek car that pulled up outside the church and the man that never got out.

He wonders what kind of man that was and later, when his stop arrives, he leaves all those thoughts behind.

-

It hasn’t even been a day in Romania when the entire world turns against him.

He shouldn’t have left his belongings in that flat but he had and now he has to run back to collect them.

Priority shouts to run and he does. Only in the opposite direction.

But he barely makes it across the road when a car pulls up.

“Hop in!” Stark calls from within. But his book –

“What the fuck you’re thinking about, _get in_!” Stark hisses.

He hesitates, “My stuffs -,” he glances at the building, heart running a mile an hour and he bolts.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Stark’s cry echoes behind him.

-

Out of tiger’s mouth and into the bear’s he goes.

-

“I don’t do that anymore.” God, he really _doesn’t._

“Well the people who think you did are coming here now. And they’re not planning on taking you alive.” Steve says.

Stark had been though. He really should have gotten into that car. He could hear the numerous footsteps approaching. They’re over powered.

“That’s smart,” he concedes. “Good strategy.”

There’s some on the roof of the opposite building. He eyes the mattress, the windows, table and that hole he’d dug out for his bag.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

_Buck._

He doesn’t even know how close to Buck he is.

Doesn’t know who exactly he is right now. But he knows what he’s going to do in the next ten seconds.

“It _always_ ends in a fight.”

“You pulled me from the river. Why?”

For a moment, that overthrows him. “I don’t know,” he says.

The blue of his eyes bright as Steve steps closer. “Yes, you do.”

And that’s when they pounce.

-

His mind screams at him to save his own skin. Stevie can take care of himself now. So, he doesn’t pull any of his punches.

He swings, swings and _swings_.

Throws his bag, leaps off of the balcony, tumbles onto the lower roof of the neighbouring building, picks his bag up and _runs._

But something or someone slams him from behind knocking him down.

Couldn’t even register what exactly he’s seeing before his body starts deflecting all the blows, autopilot.

Somehow the _thing_ gets distracted. A single second leeway, enough for him escape.

Down the roof, onto the road and as if all this is pre-planned, Stark pulls up right by his side.

This time, he doesn’t think. Peels open the door, hops in and Stark jets them away.

-

They pull up in a warehouse.

All slick steel and spacious. Metal railings everywhere and so… sterile that for a brief moment he was recollecting somewhere similar; agony whipping through his skin, weak bones and shrunken lungs.

Wobbly legs and fire everywhere.

_Steve. Bigger than in all his other memories. Worried as he tugs on chains and metal clasps, freeing him._

When he wakes up, he’s on his knees.

Stark’s standing a foot away, wary.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, finding purchase of the car to pull himself upright. “Flashback.”

He doesn’t know why he said that – a second lapse in judgement when the wiring between his mouth and brain got shot.

“Happens often?”

He grits his teeth, “Not really.”

His triggers range from familiar to similar objects and subjects but he’s not going to give that away.

To Stark’s credit, he doesn’t needle. He simply turns and walks away, gesturing at him to follow.

“Heads up. Next time I tell you to hop in, you fucking hop in. Alright?” He wheels around, looking outright furious for a hot second before he slips on a gawdy pair of orange shades and starts walking backwards.

“You’re already a stage fugitive to begin with but now, your dearest freedom loving boyfriend just staked out his own freedom to go after you -,”

“I didn’t call for him. He was already there -,” he snaps back.

“Yeah, fun fact.” Stark barrels on, stepping towards now, “If you’d have jumped in the first time I asked, he wouldn’t have attacked – what? – fifty? Sixty government officials?” He stops inches away, taking off the shades revealing just how pissed he is.

“Not even the US government but Romania’s and now the WSC is blacklisting him as we speak. As if he needed that on top of not signing the Accords,” He snorts, suddenly weary. “It’s ‘go all or nothing’ for him, isn’t it,” Stark shakes his head, laughing humourlessly. Like it’s a private joke.

Somehow it feels like this is not about him at all. Which is a first time. And that – that surprisingly makes him relax.

Even if the entire world’s after him.

“He’s always been a pain in the ass,” he tells Stark instead.

Brown eyes snap up, bright and wide and Stark blinks once. Nods and he turns back around.

They start walking again.

-

Five minutes later, he sits still. Hands fisted on his lap as Stark paces, arguing on the phone.

He tried to listen but after a few words, he realised he couldn’t understand nor could he keep up with what’s going on.

Stark speaks – if yelling is considered speaking – loud and rapid.

A lot of terminologies go over his head. A lot of them prompt piercing headache if he tries to think where he’d heard them before. So, he gave up.

He knows Stark wouldn’t have gone through the whole trouble of fleeing him if he is going to sell him out, but still, he asks. Just to be sure.

Stark scoffs. “You wouldn’t be sitting here if you really think I was.” Then he’s back on the phone again – yelling brand anew.

He sits back and counts the leaves outside the window after that.

Five hundred and seventy-nine leaves later, he hears two sets of thundering footsteps two floors below. Heavy and purposeful.

“Who’s coming?” He asks, heart jumping up his throat.

Stark turns to regard him, the crease between his eyes smoothing out and he mutters a quick, “Call me back.”

To him, he says, “Probably Steve.”

The footsteps grow closer, louder and Stark rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger pressing at his temples just as Steve barges in, looking harried.

Someone else is behind him; a black male, neat looking, posture screaming military at first glance.

“Buck!” Steve sags in relief, the second he spots him. “You’re alright.”

“Thought I told you exactly that a minute ago.” Stark sighs, sinking into one of the many swivelly chairs surrounding the oblong table in the middle. His hand blocks his face entirely as he continues to massage his temples.

“Yeah,” Steve heaves, eyes never leaving him even as he pulls up a chair for himself, one seat away. “Yeah. I just. I had to make sure.”


	4. Steve's Bucky

“Who the hell is the other guy?” Sam’s bewildered voice echoes through the com as Steve flings himself out of the window.

He lands neatly, knees tucked in. “About to find out.”

 _A fucking cat suit!_ The amused part of his brain yells at him as he charges forward.

He hears the ammo overhead and ducks. Focus still trained on Bucky who takes that second to flee. But some part of him gapes in wonder as the shot simply bounded off the sleek cat suit.

_Who the hell is this guy?_

“Sam!” he calls.

“Got him.” Sam grunts back, shaking the chopper off their back.

Steve doesn’t stop. He runs until the edge and leaps down and –

And, “I lost him.” He couldn’t believe it.

“What?”

He fucking lost Bucky. Again.

Sam’s disbelief reverberates in his ear as Steve tries to gather his wit. Sirens echo all around him.

“Cap. Heads up.” Is the last thing he hears before he gets pulled off the ground.

-

“He got in a car.” Sam informs as soon as they touch the ground. “Couldn’t catch the number plate. Whoever driving it gunned through before I could dispatch redwing.” He’s upset. That much is visible.

But as soon as Sam shows him the blurry picture captured, Steve knows exactly whom to call. Only thing is, _how_ and there’s of course the imminent _why._

-

Tony reaches him before they could find a secure line.

“Are you giving him to them?” He asks, clutching the phone close to his ear.

Tony scoffs, “You give me way less credit than I deserve, Cap.” He’s offended, Steve hears that loud and clear but it flies past his main concern. All he could think is nothing but worry incessantly.

“Tony.” He presses.

The reply is a rattle of cryptid instructions that led him to an abandoned warehouse. Sam hot on his tail.

“You sure this is the place?” the disapproval in Sam’s voice inevitable when it comes to Tony per usual.

Steve grunts in affirmation, “Is anyone tailing us?” As far as his senses are concerned, there was nothing. But it never hurts to be surer with a second pair of eyes in the sky.

“All clear.”

“I’m heading in.” Steve pants, sprinting into a run before swinging himself over the closed high gate and landing neatly on the other ground.

“Couldn’t keep the gate open for us?” Sam grumbles in his ear.

Steve barely pauses in his walk as he shrugs, feeling slightly stupid but unbothered, “Don’t know. Didn’t try.”

Sam’s snort is sharp as he flips him off skyward. “Inside in five.”

The garish emptiness of the place throws Steve off a little. He barely registers the second set of footsteps – heavy and quick; Sam – as his phone pings an incoming text.

It’s simple instructions – FRIDAY – asking him to take the lift on his far right to the fourth floor.

“The hell is this place?” Sam’s baffled whisper echoes.

“Don’t know,” Steve mutters distractedly. He spots the lift and heads over, Sam on his tail.

He forgoes the lift for stairs when it takes longer than a second to descend from the fourth floor. Sam shakes his head but follows regardless, bounding up the stairs, breath heavy as he pants, “How the hell did Stark get Barnes and not us?”

Steve mumbles a ‘don’t know’ yet again because fuck if he knows anything right now.

He thought –

Well, it’s Bucky and Steve had thought –

“And Barnes just – what? Got in the car like they were old pals?” Sam huffs, “What that’s about?”

Steve stops, turning to meet Sam’s eyes.

“I. Don’t. Know. Sam,” He stresses before bolting upstairs - faster, heavier on his feet - leaving Sam a floor behind, even if he knows it’s not Sam’s fault that Steve’s largely clueless.

Nor is it Sam’s fault that Steve feels like Bucky had just chosen Tony over their friendship.

-

The second he sees Bucky – hunched over as he is, all the confidence and bravado from 1930’s vanished and so are the stiff surety of the Winter Soldier – Steve finally allows himself to _breathe_.

“Buck,” he exhales, pure relief coursing through his nerves. “You’re alright.”

“Thought I told you exactly that a minute ago,” Tony’s exasperated tone knocks him back to reality – the future; _clearer, brighter, sleeker_.

Not New York circa 1920s.

“Yeah.” Steve shakes his head, feeling his knees go weak under him. “Yeah. I just. I had to make sure.”

He pulls out a chair, unable to take his eyes off of Bucky. He knows he’d just seen him an hour ago – or so – but he simply couldn’t believe it.

Fuck, he’d almost lost the guy. Thought the next time he’d see him, he’d be behind the bars. Not like this, safe. Not really, but still. In which case –

“Why?” He turns to Tony, finally taking him in. Prim three-piece suit fitted perfectly to his form as Tony leans back and fidgets with his maroon tie.

He looks up when Steve addresses him, brown eyes fleeting to take in Sam hovering behind Steve and he sighs, “Take a seat, Wilson. You’re ticking on my nerves as it is.” Then to Steve, he says, “Simple, I have evidences that he didn’t do it.”

On his periphery, Bucky’s head snaps up. Eyes laser focused on Tony.

But Tony only has eyes for Steve. “I say, we bring him in.” He holds up a finger when Steve opens his mouth. “I’ve arranged lawyers, we get him out of false accusation the legal way. Not the whole,” He waves a hand jerkily, “- fugitive-shtick you’re so fond of pulling these days.”

Steve clenches his jaw, frustrated, “They’re gonna lock him up the moment he steps in there.”

“Already got that covered. No lock ups. Just a little psych evaluation and they’ll clear him out as soon as they’re ensured he’s safe.”

“And how long is that going to take?” Steve snarls, leaning in as if he could reach and shake Tony to make him understand. “They’ll _fuck with him.”_

“I’ve talked to Ross -,”

“I don’t trust Ross!” Steve snaps.

“Yeah!? Okay. Fine. Then, why don’t _you_ tell me what you want to do, Captain Rampant?”

Fuck, Steve thinks. This is exactly what it is with Tony.

He leans back and inhales, dragging a hand down his face.

He’s so fucking tired of Tony ramming against all of his ends. His piss-ass attitude only makes Steve swallow his ‘thank you’.

These past few days had been tough. With the whole Accords debacle and what little tolerance they’ve worked out between each other seemed to be wearing out from frictions after frictions.

Tony is still upset with his decision to go against the Accords, Steve knows.

Steve wishes he could make Tony understand, would have if Vienna hadn’t exploded on all of their heads.

Now Bucky thrown into this whole fiasco oh so conveniently. 

“What kind of evidence you have?” He asks, focussing on solving Bucky’s issue first and foremost.

“Eye witness.” Tony huffs, sinking back into his chair.

Steve eyes his hands warily. Whatever headache Tony’s been nursing lately, it’s taking a toll on him.

“And -,” Tony jolts, leaving forward in his seat. Elbows propped and suddenly looking as if the past few seconds of pain was just an illusion to Steve. “If you still have your ticket, it’ll be an easy bail out.”

He addresses Bucky directly then.

Bucky’s head jerking in a stiff nod before he eases the tight hold he’d been having around his backpack to sink a hand into his jacket pocket and pull out a strip of what looks like a train ticket.

“What’s that?” Steve asks. Trying hard not to be bothered by the severe lack of inside to his best friend while somehow, by some act of nature, Tony Stark seems to have.

Behind him, Sam shifts closer. “A train-ticket.”

Steve closes his eyes, letting pure frustration seep out of him.

“Why, thank you, bird brain” Tony snaps, and sometimes - Steve got to admit – he has to give it to Tony for having the gal which he lacks.

He opens his eyes to Bucky silently handing over the ticket to Tony.

Gaze fixed and steady. As if Bucky already trusts Tony, and Tony – Tony nods, like this is a normal exchange between them.

Steve realises there’s something he’s missing here. Something big.

And he doesn’t like it a bit.

“Do you know each other?” He got to ask. His fingers flex on his lap, tighter and tighter, forming a fist.

Tony shrugs, nonchalant like he always plays in the face of trouble, “We’ve met before.”

Steve’s eyes flick towards Bucky, then back to Tony. Behind him, Sam shuffles quietly.

“When?”

The way Tony flicks his wrist, lazily like he could care less, irks him.

“Here and there, not important.”

But for Steve, it _is_.

“Buck?” he turns to his buddy.

Because Steve has to know.

It’s not jealously, but it’s close. Bucky is _his_. 

Bucky makes a big part of who Steve is. He’s _Steve’s_ best friend. He’s _Steve’s_ history.

Yet there he is, looking at Tony Stark as if they could communicate with looks alone. And that’s _not_ fair.

Bucky is _Steve’s._


	5. Square One

His left arm throbs minutely.

His head meanwhile, is just _relentless._ He’s been nursing a back ache since forever – can’t even remember when it never hurt to sit on his ass anymore – and by the look of it, with all the added pacing, his knee-ache is merely a tip of a Titanic-lethal iceberg threatening to take him down for good.

“Pepper. This is the last favour I’m pulling,”

He’s too old for this. But his grip on the phone is still steady.

“You can’t possibly ask me that, Tony. Not after -,”

“No, I can’t. I know, I can’t,” he rattles on before she can bring up the very thing he hates to recount. His big _merry_ failure.

“But this is not about can and can’t, hon-,” _No_.

Nope. Right. Not _anymore_.

Backtrack a bit there, “This is a matter of dire situation. The team’s fate relies on it.”

Pepper’s resigned sigh ironically eases his own breathing, “Somehow I find that very hard to believe, _but_. I’ll send you the details in a minute. Do not – I repeat – do _not_ do anything that’ll make the company look bad.”

He latches onto her indignance like a leech.

“Miss Potts, you know the very essence of me means trouble,” he chuckles.

 _God,_ he misses her.

“You? Yes. But I’m not letting you spread that misfortune anywhere near my company, Tony, I’m keeping this _very_ out of business, you get me?”

“That’s all I ask.”

Misfortune.

“And Tony?”

“Yep?”

“I’m glad you called. I mean, you don’t have any favours to pull on me, but -,” She pauses. A loaded sigh. And then, “Will that be all, Mr Stark?”

A _misfortune_ –

“That’ll be all, Miss Potts.”

\- that’s exactly what they’d been.

-

“Tony.”

Tony closes his eyes, willing himself to simply _breathe_.

He has nothing against Steve but the way he says his name is just…

“Time’s not on our side here, Cap. Got your boyfriend to say something at last?” he turns around, regarding the man.

The shift in Steve’s entire demeanour is rapid.

One second, he’s all earnest and the next, he’s flat faced. Exasperated and done.

Tony personally finds it easier to deal with the latter Steve. The first one spooks him tad too much.

“He said you’ve both met before. Didn’t go into details but -,”

“That doesn’t matter.” Tony finishes for him, taking an empty seat for himself and gesturing at another for Steve.

“So, what’s the say? Are we going with the plan to surrender and _then_ needling our way out from the inside or are you gonna run?” The _‘again’_ goes unsaid but not unnoticed.

A curious smile works into Steve’s face as he shakes his head and takes his seat. “Tony, you can’t hold a grudge on my stand against the Accords -,”

“Oh! I’m not holding any grudges,” Tony denies, “Just reminding you that you can’t run away from everything forever. Even with all that super soldier metabolism you have.”

Across him, Steve rolls his eyes. His defensive stance on full blow; arms across his chest and head ducked down.

Tony glances outside the window; a quick reconsideration of his words – what to mince, what to not and –

“Why don’t you just sign?” He blurts out.

Holds up a hand when Steve’s head snaps up, fierce blue intense under spilling rays of summer sun through the window-filters. “We’ll work on it from the _inside_. Our signatures just a front and nothing else.”

“Tony, that is cheating.”

“This is not an exam, Cap.”

“Regardless! You can’t ask us to pretend to accept something we don’t like so we can infiltrate and -,” he shakes his head, _disgusted._

“It’s exactly what HYDRA did with SHIELD.”

Tony bristles.

“And the alternative is?!” He snaps before quickly gathering himself.

Fuck, his left arm _hurts_. “We are _not_ HYDRA. This isn’t SHIELD. This is a fight we have to face by surrendering first, or we’re risking losing it all.

Steve’s twisted face says it all.

Tony takes a deep inhale and breathes out, “Sometimes I want to punch you in your perfect teeth.” He tells him. “But I don’t wanna see you gone.”

The snort that comes out of Steve surprises them both.

For a minute, they regard each other quietly.

All their differences annulled, except for years of comradery. Of knowing each other more than they know themselves and yet, shying around a label they can define all _that._

“We _need_ you, Cap.” Tony relents, “So far, nothing’s happened that can’t be undone if you sign. We can make the last 24 hours legit. If you don’t sign, you’re going to break up the team,” Tony says feeling his voice wearing thin, all energy drained out of him.

Steve looks equally depleted.

Sagging in his seat right then, he looks all of his youth quadrupled and yet _old._ But when he speaks, he sounds not the least bit different, “There would have to be safeguards…”

Tony feels something untwist within in, “Sure,” he agrees quickly, “Once we put out the PR fire, those documents can be amended. We prove Barnes’ innocence. I’d file a motion to have you and Wanda reinstated…,”

“Wanda. What about Wanda?”

“She’s fine. She’s confined to the compound, currently. Vision’s keeping her company.”

Steve stands up so quickly, he almost topples the chair backward. “Oh God, Tony! Every time. Every time I think you see things the right way…,”

“What? It’s 100 acres with a lap pool. It’s got a screening room. There are worse ways to protect people.”

“ _Protection_? Is that how you see this? This is protection? It’s internment, Tony.”

“She’s not a US citizen.” Tony points out, watching Steve pace.

Steve spins around, “Oh, come on, Tony.”

Clenching his jaw, Tony retaliates, “And they don’t grant visas to weapons of mass destruction.” God knows he’d _tried._ With every fucking –

“She’s a kid!”

And right then, Steve looks at him with utter _disappointment._

For that brief moment, Tony feels tiny and five and Howard is looking _down_ at him.

“GIVE ME A BREAK!” He shouts.

“I’m doing what has to be done…,” he breathes, “- to stave off something worse.”

It feels like all the walls are closing in on him.

“You keep telling yourself that,” He hears Steve say in distance, before the door slams shut and Tony lets his head drop back heavily against the headrest.

 _Every time,_ Steve echoes in his head.

 _Every time I think we’ve gotten somewhere, we’re back to square one,_ Tony echoes back ruefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, here's the deal.  
> in the movie, ross presented the accords and asked them to sign. later, tony made a statement post steve's capture in his delicious 3 pieces tom ford (which i've reenacted here as well) that 'those documents can be amended'.  
> therefore, I'm going to treat it as a rough draft that is yet to be finalised until all parties willing to participate sit down and do so.
> 
> another thing, steve and sam are officially on wsc's shit list cause steve beat up the swat team sent to capture bucky. in case you're wondering why steve has to be reinstated too.;)
> 
> any questions or critiques or declaration of love/interest regarding this story, pls leave a comment <3


	6. Mom and Dad

Steve is seething.

He cannot – He simply cannot believe what they had done to Wanda and Tony –

_Protection?_

Jesus Christ. Is that what they’re gonna be doing to Bucky as well?

He thinks of turning around, taking those two flights of stairs down again and yanking Tony out of his chair. He thinks of shaking him by the shoulder and make him listen;

Don’t you know? They’re playing us? We’re never going to be safer than we have been.

He’d rather face the life on a run – all of them – than he would, playing yet another puppet pulled by yet another set of hands. ‘Different’ but they never always so, are they.

It’s that thought that halts his steps; falling short as they are right before he reaches his final landing.

 _On a run_ , he thinks wearily as he sags with his back to the wall.

Who is he, to ask anyone to break the law with him?

Choices; to each their own, isn’t it? And yet – He thought –

A heavy sigh filters out of his chest as he sinks to the floor. Knees pulled up and elbows propped, he holds his head in his hands and thinks, _how dare he?_

He could never dictate others, will never, but he has that power, doesn’t he? That’s what Tony’s been trying to tell him;

_If you don’t sign, you’re going to break up the team._

Steve doesn’t want to. He can never agree to what’s written under the proposed amendment. But –

If he refuses, he’s setting a movement against it. If he refuses, the Avengers are going to split…

‘United we stand, divided we _fall.’_

He knows that phrase. Had heard it come out of his own mouth on multiple occasions.

 _God_ , he thinks.

Then there’s Bucky stuck in between this whole mess.

And he doesn’t know what to worry about first. Everything seems to happening at the same time, like some kind of a judgement day; the Accords and the hunt for Bucky and now the WSC is also after Sam and himself because he was willing to rescue Bucky –

Didn’t succeed. Not with stealth like the way Tony did.

Tony who’d pried Bucky away under the eyes of a countless witnesses without being immediately labelled a terrorist because of the power he had, his remarkable ability to negotiate, play the table like he would on their poker nights. A true businessman.

But Tony’s plans with the Accords –

No, Steve’s entire body rejects.

It’s the same as what HYDRA had done with SHIELD. The act of infiltration, playing everyone like a fool and invading from the inside.

He can _never_ do that.

-

Sam finds him like that after sometime.

“Hey,” he approaches, his purposeful gait slacking into a still as he leans against the adjacent wall.

Steve gaze immediately falls past him, “You left him, alone?”

“He’s fine,” Sam shrugs. “Not trying to make a run if that’s what you’re asking.”

Steve hesitates, but when he thinks about what he’s going to say next - _and you’re sure, how? -_ he drops it.

He’s tired of suspecting. Even Sam? Who’d dropped everything for Steve?

“So, you and Stark… you both talked?”

That makes Steve shake his head a mile.

“He said, if I don’t sign the Accords, I’ll break up the team,” he glares at Sam with all the anger he feels for Tony.

To Sam’s credit, he doesn’t falter. Simply shrugs and says, “Well, he ain’t wrong to assume that.”

“I know,” Steve argues. “But what he’s asking, I can’t. It’s HYDRA all over again.”

This time, Sam straightens up, stricken. Steve can’t help but feel smug; at least someone else gets it.

“What do you mean, it’s HYDRA?” he asks.

“He asks us all to sign first, to agree, and then to disagree once when we’re inside. He wants to – what he said – _work it from the inside_.” Steve scoffs, expecting Sam to follow.

But Sam, his stance slowly relaxes like he can understand where Tony’s coming from. And he says, “Huh, that’s not HYDRA. That’s actually, smart.”

Steve can’t help the coil of betrayal that twists within him. “What do you mean? Infiltrating and then invading, it’s manipulation. It’s business. It’s exactly what HYDRA did with SHIELD,” he presses.

“Business, sure. But Steve, it’s not like we’re going to play yes-man to all of their conditions. If I’m not mistaken, what he wants is for us to lay down our signature, our agreement to _participate_ and then, we negotiate our rights, as a _member_ -,”

“But we’re not signing up as a member, we’re signing up to be prosecuted!” Steve stands up.

Sam takes a step back, putting some distance between them. But he doesn’t stop just because of that.

“I don’t know, man. If Stark says we can work from within, I mean, with the kind of tricks he has up his sleeves, I’m not so sure we won’t succeed,” He shrugs.

“Anyway, that’s not what I asked. I asked if you guys talked about the next plan from here?”

When Steve still looks wrong footed, Sam jerks his chin up the stairs. In Bucky’s direction.

Guilt unfurls inside Steve. “No, I, I – we didn’t get to that part,” he admits sourly.

Sam snorts, “Yeah, you both tend to do that.”

Steve frowns at him.

“You know, you guys sit to talk and you digress and you let your emotions get over you and forget what you wanted to say in the first place,” Sam shrugs.

“We dub it the classic mom and dad syndrome.” He grins all reckless then.

As if it’s just another day, outside another conference room and they’re in the compound having yet another team briefing which is now ruined by Steve and Tony getting ahead of themselves. Again.

And for a second, Steve _feels_ that.

But that’s not what this is. This is trouble with capital T and they’re all right in the centre of it. And Steve’s behaving exactly like what Sam described, like it’s just _another team briefing._

“Think you can keep him company a little longer,” he nods to Bucky’s general direction. “I’m gonna go have that talk with Tony.”

“I’d try my best. But if he bites, Imma bite him back.”

Steve gives him an exasperated eye roll.

“Just being honest here,” Sam puts up his hands.

-

Steve catches Tony by the elevator.

“You know… I never did say thank you,” he pauses expectantly, “For the thing with Bucky…”

“What? Saving you boyfriend?” Tony jabs hard at the elevator button. “Don’t bother. Wasn’t doing it for you.”

Steve bites back a smile. “He’s not my boyfriend.” It’s pretty relieving to know Tony’s still willing to talk to him after. Enough for him to go easy on that boyfriend jest.

The elevator door pings open and Tony snorts, “I’m the last person you need to clarify to, Cap,” as he steps in.

Steve follows after, stopping next to him. The door closes and the elevator jerks slightly, moving.

“Regardless. Thanks.” Steve tells the door.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence accompanies them from 2nd to 3rd floor, going to 4th, their final floor.

“What’s the plan?” Steve asks in a rush, turning to look at Tony who glances up distractedly from his phone to acknowledge him.

“What plan?”

Steve follows the hurried taps of deft fingers across the phone screen, then back to Tony’s face. “Where do we go from here?”

Tony’s response is a disappointing nonchalant shrug. “That’s for your not-boyfriend to decide,” he finally looks away from the device.

“Personally, I’d prefer he comes with me to ‘surrender’,” he wiggles his fingers to air-quote, “and my lawyers will defend his case. All he has to do is sit for a mental evaluation test in front of the board and if everything’s cleared, he’d be free-,”

“What if they don’t set him free. What if they -,”

“Choose to account him for the past 50 or so assassinations in the past?” Tony nods, “Yeah, I was thinking about offering him be confined in the compound.” He shoots a sharp look in Steve’s way.

“You have to admit it’s better than a prison, Cap. It’s – It’s the best.” He sighs wearily, “For Wanda. For him.”

Steve works his jaw, glaring at the now, open elevator doors. He doesn’t step out. Neither does Tony.

He hates it.

The whole idea of confinement – the thought of imprisoning innocent people from their rightful freedom makes his skin crawl.

But he has to admit that he has no better solution than what Tony has to offer…

“Okay,” he nods.

Tony exhales. He can almost hear his silent, _thank fuck._

“Only temporarily,” He tells him.

“Until we amend the proposed Accord. Of course.” Tony pats his arm, finally stepping out of the elevator.

And Steve, he follows.


	7. Sam Wilson

The black man returns.

He’s alone and he’s grouchier than he was before he left.

He looks at him as if it’s all his fault that the man’s stuck in here and to be honest, maybe that’s true. He doesn’t know. But he knows he didn’t wish for it.

He barely wishes anymore. He knows he used to, once – Once, a very, very long time.

Where and how he knows that, is a mystery, but he remembers a feeling the curl of something prickling, like… hope.

It’s the same feeling he had when he was running away from Washington.

He was wishing nobody found him. He was desperately _hoping_ without knowing and the sensation was heavy in his gut, like a bloom of a blossom. Disturbingly addictive.

He nipped at it.

Refused to revisit and he will never, allow himself to hope again.

It’s not because they found him because they didn’t but something else was bitter and thorny along with it.

Hope comes with dreams in bubbles and they pop and they never come true.

It’s what he remembers of them. Hope equates to danger and he refuses to deal with them anymore than he already did.

“You ate?”

The black man asks. He’s military, he could tell. He’s tall and confident with a purpose. He’s good. He can see that. But he’s also broken.

“Bucky. Right?” He asks, hooking a foot around a chair and pulling it out for himself. It’s the first time, he’d sit since they’ve left them both alone in here.

“I don’t know,” he tells the man.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” The man cocks his head. Not snappish, but curious.

“I don’t know who Bucky is.” He says. “I’m not Bucky.”

The man regards him a while then he gives a slow nod. “Riiight. You have a name then?”

The question makes him look up. Meet sthe man’s eyes and he realises it’s not as scary as he thought it would be. So, he keeps his gaze on him and he shakes his head.

“They called me the Asset.”

“And Steve calls you Bucky.” The man nods, leaning forward with clasped hands.

He’d seen this pose before. On television. The box with pictures that move and talk. They always wear suits but this man behaves just like them without the fancy coat and the tie.

His face is passive and something about the man makes him confess.

“I saw, in the – the museum. I saw Steve and I saw m- I saw my face. James Buchanan Barnes.” He swallows, and the man waits patiently. Silent as if he expects him to say more and he does.

“Best friends since childhood. Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.” He recounts what he’d heard back then.

The man looks impressed. “Word to word. Not bad.”

He ducks his head. His shoes are tearing at their soles. There’s a hole in front of the left one and he crosses his ankles so it’s hidden behind his right shoe.

“Bucky died,” he says. “He gave his life in service.”

The man shrugs, “Not what my eyes tell me.”

When he stays silent, the man says, “Something tells me you know – or at least, in the process – of knowing who you are. You remember, don’t you?”

He searches the man’s eyes. His intentions, double meanings, manipulation. Any gives. Nothing.

“Not all.”

“But enough.”

He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t confirm, nor deny.

But the man still nods. “That’s fine. Everyone needs their own time,” he explains “But you gotta decide on a name soon, man. It’s fine if you want to stick to Bucky but you look like you’ve swallowed a lime every time Steve calls you that...,” He shrugs again.

“What’s your name?” He asks the man.

The man smirks and extends his hand, “Samuel Thomas Wilson. They call me Sam on the street and Falcon on the field.”

“Falcon?”

“Codename.”

“Like… Iron Man?” he asks.

“And Captain America.” Samuel Thomas Wilson nods.

It’s a mouthful, so he asks, “What do I call you?”

“Sam,” the man smiles. Gaze falling to where his hand is still extended. Waiting.

“James,” he decides.

“Nice to meet you, James.” Sam says.

James takes his hand.

“Are we kissing too?” Stark enters with Steve behind him.

“There’s no need for jealously, we were just introducing ourselves,” Sam smirks at him, leaning back in his seat.

Stark rolls his eyes behind his gawdy shades. “Just? After what -,” He checks his watch, “an eon being stuck together and you’ve only begun introduction. Slow coach,” he tsks, hiking up a hip next to James.

Steve comes to a stop beside Sam who retorts, “Speak for yourself and Cap here.”

“Don’t get jealous, hummingbird.”

“Tony,” Steve interferes. His tone less argumentative than earlier, fonder.

A change that James picks up with a curious tilt to his head.

When Stark huffs, compliantly changing the topic, he does it with a dismissal wave of his hand which gets a soft smile from Steve Rogers. And a shake of his head.

Something he has witnessed somewhere in the past. Something tinted earthy brown and summer sun.

Something that makes warmth bubble up in the pit of his stomach and makes him sigh.

 _Affection_.

That’s what it was.


	8. Bastard

“Okay, Tastee Freeze. You have two options here. Number one; simple, you run. Fugitive, until I can work out a pardon for you but I cannot promise you it will be soon. We have a lot on the plate right now,” Tony says, holding in the itch to glance at Steve.

He’s trying here, he tells himself. He’s trying to be neutral and objective and not let his feelings come forth any more than they already did.

Besides, Steve has agreed to sign.

“Number two; you surrender,” he delivers carefully, peering at the man for any troubled feelings. But Bucky Barnes looks just as troubled as he did when he hopped into Tony’s car. Not a single twitch to his mouth or crease to his forehead.

“I’ve got a lawyer and you got that train ticket and we can defend your innocence.”

This time, the man looks up. Wordless but Tony thinks he knows what he’s asking for anyway. “We have to wait what they decide about your past. If they want you under custody, I’m offering you to be confined in the compound while I work on your pardon. Otherwise, you’ll be a free man.” Tony allows the corner of his mouth curve into a small smile. Reassurance.

Gaze dropping back to where they were previously; fixed on his torn sneakers, Barnes seems to consider his options.

Tony picks up the little twitch in Steve’s fingers. The way he clenches his hand, the way his jaw works. 

Their eyes meet and he could very well hear it aloud; _there must be other options._

Tony quirks an eyebrow; _you wanna tell us what?_

Steve turns away, nostrils flaring, looking resolutely ahead at the dancing branches outside the window.

“How about us?” Sam Wilson asks, pulling Tony away from the heavy frustration he feels for Steve.

“You tried to intercept the arrest of an innocent man.” Tony shrugs, “As long as you sign the Accord, Ross won’t try anything.”

Sam snorts, “Are you sure about that?”

Tony gives him a flat look, he’d answer a simple ‘yes’ but since he’s feeling incredibly tried as it is, he bites Sam’s challenge, “Dare to find out, birdie?”

Sam seems to be amused by that. A slow grin splits across his way as he gives Tony a nod. “Fair enough.”

Tony’s in the middle of rolling his eyes at him when his phone rings. It’s one of his priority calls’ tune, so he picks up.

“Where are you?” Natasha Romanoff inquires, steady and deliberately nonchalant through the line.

Tony smirks, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He ducks away from his companions, marching towards the far end of the room; north-east corner.

He could hear her cursing him silently, but she’s too smart to show any sign. “Ross ordered a man hunt for Steve and Sam. And order to kill upon sight on the Winter Soldier.”

Tony frowns. That’s not possible, he just spoke to Ross earlier about an arrangement. “Are you giving me old news?”

“Look it up yourself. Should be easy. He isn’t exactly discreet.”

Tony’s a few seconds faster; he’s already typed the search into the tab, pulling out few recent results.

His gut plummets.

“Bastard!” Tony grits out, feeling his ears ring in boiling anger.

“What’s going on?”

Steve’s voice comes from what feels like a tunnel. Far away.

“He’s with you?” Natasha hisses in his ear. This time, she lets slip her own frustration.

Tony closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Call me back when you’re sure you’re alone,” he tells her.

Pinching the news feed on his phone, Tony flicks it onto the pale wall; up for everyone else in the room to see.

He taps on the latest video; a news broadcast.

The chirpy voice of the reporter relay Ross’s betrayal out and aloud for all of them to hear as Tony pinches the bridge of his nose.

Head lowered in sheer shame.

He couldn’t bear to see any of them in the eyes. He could very well hear the yells of; _we told you so!_

 _Yeah,_ he thinks. _Yeah, I was told. But I was –_

He was, what? Betrayed? Again?

Fuck, this hits way close to home than he’d like.

“What do we do now?” Sam breaks the silence.

If Tony was expecting an equally proud ‘I told you so’ as Steve’s it was from him. But that’s not what he’s saying now, is he?

“I don’t know,” Tony exhales, finally turning to face his sentence. “Clearly my plan failed way before it even began. As you could all see,” he whirls around, waving at the wall.

Frustrated grin stretching his mouth taught, making his teeth rattle.

He shoves his shade up his nose, fists punching into his pants’ pockets and he straightens up his spine. He can face the music just fine.

He looks at Steve first; because that’s where it will hurt the worst (and matters most).

But Steve’s eyes are still fixed on the wall.

His jaw tight, brows pinched but he doesn’t look livid. Or disappointed. He only looks like he’s in thinking.

Tony looks at Barnes next, who’s the mirror image of Steve except for the lack of emotions. Still.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” he tells him. Because Barnes deserves that.

All three pair of eyes fall on him. But Tony only addresses Barnes, “That is not my doing.”

Barnes blinks, then he turns back to the news feed on the wall. No, nothing.

Tony feels like the worst person in the planet ever.

Steve sighs, finally making a sound.

“Who do we trust now?”


	9. Scramble

His phone rings again. Barely five minutes from her previous call; Natasha is fast.

This time Tony puts it on speaker.

“Wherever you are, get out of there. Ross got your location pinned.”

There’s an immediate rise of panic in the room. Wheels scratch against the tiles; fabric rustles. Someone swears.

Tony speaks past the fear that clouds him; immobilizing his thoughts; his muscles and reflexes. _Do not shut down._

“Impossible.”

He sounds faint but Natasha hears him anyway.

“You’re wasting time,” She sounds irritated now. Then she swears in Russian.

“Where are you?” Tony asks, gaze snapping towards Steve who demands;

“How long have we got.”

Tony pulls out the satellite view of their location and projects it onto the wall, replacing the news feed.

What looks like at least twenty military trucks are heading towards them from various ends. Overhead, two choppers are coming from opposite directions.

“Do they think we’ve got hulk in here?” Sam mutters grimly, already on his feet; securing his wings to his back.

Steve is up too, heading towards the window. Back to the wall as he scouts.

“Get on the roof in five,” Natasha orders, promptly ending the call.

“Natasha!” Steve calls to no response. He makes an impatient noise, heading back to the map. “We’ve got less than five. The trucks will be here in three.”

But Tony isn’t really listening. He knows it’s not the time, but his rage gets the best of him and he flings his phone at the wall.

It doesn’t break. Of course, it doesn’t break; he made it after all.

The map vanishes. He’s got eyes on his back and a clipped voice that calls his name; chastising. But Tony doesn’t care. He taps his watch, pulls at the plate that it ejects and the cords that come out next and he aims his gauntleted hand at the device.

Steve’s catches his wrist, pressing down. But Tony resists. “He’s got our location from a single call I made, Cap.”

Understanding flickers in Steve’s eyes and he lets go.

Tony shoots; a blast of blue ray that is too bright. Too alien. And he watches as the phone shrinks into nothing but dusts.

Then he announces, avoiding all of their eyes, “Now, I’m going to fetch my suit from the garage. See you on the roof.” And he leaves.

* * *

“Cap.” Sam’s voice snaps him into focus.

He turns his back to the exit door and picks up his shield. “Bucky, get your stuffs. We gotta move,” he gives a nod in Sam’s direction.

The map from before is still in the forefront of his brain. All he knows right now - their crystal-clear goal - is to run. Erase their trails and disappear.

“Leave your devices behind; cellular, whatever you are carrying that can be traced. Bucky,” he calls, because if anyone looks lost …

“Are you good to go?”

One tight nod is enough for now. Steve jerks his chin to the exit, signalling Sam to lead and Bucky behind and himself, last.

Something itches. One of his team mate is alone downstairs; vulnerable for attack. He knows Tony can hold up on his own. He’s Iron Man. But those trucks could be here in two minutes and what if Tony doesn’t make it into his suit in time and –

He has to make sure.

They reach the staircase when Steve delegates; “Sam, Buck, get up to the roof. I’m gonna go find Tony.”

It’s the lousiest reason but he’s got no time to explain. Sam understands nonetheless.

“Let’s go,” he nods to Buck and Steve gives a grateful salute in his way before bounding down the stairs.

He reaches the garage in less than half a minute, slamming open the door and he spots Tony easily; fully armoured now, except for his helmet.

Tony starts, both hands up to defend or blow up. Steve puts both of his up as well; harmless.

When Tony drops his hands, Steve inhales and lets out, “Ready?”

Tony’s eyebrows go up, “I said -,”

“Sam and Buck are on the roof.”

“Is there a reason why you’re not?”

“Backup,” Steve says. 

Tony snorts. Poor excuse, Steve knows. But that is it. That is the only reason why –

“Did you come to yell at me?”

“Wha- No. C’mon, let’s go.” He presses. Nodding at the elevator. Why would Tony think he’d – Steve shakes his head.

“I’m not taking the elevator in this.” Tony huffs. Petulant

Steve blinks then squints, “You’re not fly -,”

“Yes, I’m flying genius. Why’d you think I asked to meet on the roof?” he throws his hands out.

It looks funny when he does it fully armoured. Steve rolls his eyes, “Fine, I’ll -,”

“Oh, forget it,” Tony waves him off. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

Shrugging, Steve jogs to Tony’s side, falling into step as they march to the main exit; outside.

“You really weren’t going to yell at me?” Tony asks, voice muffled and mechanical now that he’d put his helmet on.

He mumbles something else too. Something unrelated; “Confirmed. Reboot.” Steve gathers he’s probably talking to FRIDAY on HUD; multitasking. Typical Tony.

“No,” Steve says, “Why would I?”

Tony takes a second to respond, “Maybe cause this all turned out a shit show. Also, the fact that Thaddeus Ross is a certified asshole like you’d predicted.”

Steve snorts, “No, Tony. I’m not gonna yell at you.”

“Not even a little ‘I told you so’? Cause you have the right you know -,”

“No.” Steve cuts him off, rolling his eyes.

“Eh,” Tony replies, probably with a shrug that doesn’t translate through the armour.

He lifts a hand up, about to repulsor-blast off the door and Steve stays a step behind, shield up front.

Both of them are very well aware that they could use their hand to pull open the door; like a normal human. And yet -

The door goes down, the dust clears off and five military trucks are parked right in front of them.


	10. Platypus

Jim did not sign up for this.

When Tony approached him with the idea of a revamped Avengers last year, he told Jim that, _“Platypus, you have nothing to worry about. Everything will be taken care of. I’ll even get the military approval for your participance worked out. All you have to do is say yes.”_

Hell, it was Thaddeus Ross himself who co-signed Jim’s military approval letter to involve in official Avenger’s mission. Although, now that he thinks about it, it makes perfect sense for Ross to loan Jim to the Avenger’s. Especially now that he’s deliberately painting bulls-eyes on them.

Fucking power-hungry mongrel.

His phone pings distracting Jim from his thoughts. Just as he lowers his gaze to take a look at the notification, he catches a flash of bright red disappearing around the corner in his periphery. It clues him to what the new text in his phone might be, more specifically, from whom.

 _365 in 5;_ the message reads.

Jim’s brain is programmed in such way that, in the span of time he’s thinking that he might need a second to process the cryptic order thrown at him, his neurons have already solved it.

He’s already making an excuse out of the conference room by the time he deciphers it to be a room number and a given time-span. One of the agents tries to stop him but Jim calmly asks him; “Are you sure you want me to relieve my bladder in here?” and the guy takes an immediate step back.

He’s seen to the door by a blonde Agent he has a vague memory of seeing before but couldn’t point out when and where. The badge around her neck says her name is Carter. She gives a tiny nod as Jim steps out, increasing his suspicion about her; who is she and why does she look like she knows what he’s up to.

Regardless, Jim gets out, walks down the corridor towards the men’s room and take a sharp turn just before the hallway ends. From there, he ups his speed, keeping his head up as if he belongs right where he is and knows what shit he’s up to as he takes the stairs to the third floor.

He finds the room easily. Quick periphery check before he slips inside and comes face to face with the Black Widow.

Before he could demand _‘Where the hell is Cap?’,_ she’s already grabbing him by his elbow, yanking him to her height to hiss;

“Tony got them all. Including Barnes.”

Chills run down Jim’s spine.

“Ross just ordered them to be executed.”

Fierce green eyes dart across his face. Understanding pass between them.

“I’m taking the Quinjet to them,” Nat states.

“You know where they are?”

She nods, letting go of Jim's elbow. “Got a read when Tony picked up. You got a plan?”

Until then, Jim didn’t. But the moment she finished asking him, he realises that he’s already gotten a solid one. Jim nods.

“Good,” Natasha says. “I’ll meet you there.”

-

Worming his way into Ross’ ‘defence’ (offence) troop wasn’t exactly a hard thing. Especially when Jim has too damn much second hand experience witnessing _Tony Stark_ smooching asses. Most of the times, he regrets them but this once, it saves him and ironically, Tony himself.

Officially, he’s guiding the troop to Tony’s location. Unofficially, he’s helping his dumbass best friend escape for maybe the fifth hundredth time in his life.

 _Lucky bastard_ , Jim thinks as he suits up.

He sends a message to Vision just to make sure. The guy got Wanda under his supervision and once this shit explodes, they may as well be ready to bear the brunt.

He has no clue about the details of Natasha’s plan. But something tells him, nor does she. All he knows now is to get to a common location, topple Ross over his own head and run.

Nat got the ‘how’ covered. But the ‘where’… God, he hopes Tony got that covered.

 _Please don’t be MIT basement;_ he chants as he takes off. With Tony, one can never expect.

-

Jim doesn’t signal for Tony until the warehouse is visible.

Circulating overhead, he spots the gaudy red and gold easily on the ground – Cap’s blue just visible by Tony’s right – and Jim switches on the private line connecting War Machine to Iron Man. That one nifty secret line no one knows about but Jim and Tony.

“You owe me fifty upgrades for this shit.”

Tony’s voice when it comes through is a genuinely relieved exhale of Jim's name.

_“Rhodey.”_


	11. War Machine

“You got a plan? Cause I got none,” Jim murmurs into his mouthpiece.

“I had three before I got stabbed in the back,” Tony replies overtly casual. He’s butt hurt. Jim rolls his eyes at that.

“Were you really expecting any better from Ross?”

“Well, I was expecting to be the one to do the stabbing not to be stabbed.”

At that, Jim smirks. “So?”

“So?”

“Plans, Tony.” Jim hisses. “They’re waiting me to command.” And just right then, the leader of the troop calls questioningly, “Colonel.”

“Can you command them to fuck off, maybe?”

“Not funny,” Jim grunts. To the leader, he signals to wait.

“Okay listen up,” he starts at Tony, “Blast the ground -,”

“Why would I blast the gr -,”

“Sand. Deflection.”

“- ound – oh.”

“I need you and Steve on air by then. Take down the chopper, you know where to aim?”

“The chopper?”

Jim pulls in a breath. “At the blades. Hit them, I’ll make sure there’s no casualty and then all of you are going run before I shoot at you, okay?”

“Gotcha.”

“On my count, okay?” Jim signals the leader to back up a step. The troop follows. “Three.”

“Two.” He holds up three fingers to the leader, a different countdown; one second behind. “One.”

Tony fires. Clouds of sand and dusts puffs up, blinding them. Jim’s heat vision tracks Tony making his escape, Steve clutched by his side and he hears another blast. The chopper comes down.

Quinjet is hovering over the roof and Jim remembers to breathe as he shoots himself upwards, gunfire echoing his ascend.

He catches the two fliers easily, drops them on the roof and he takes off after Quinjet. The chaotic cry at his betrayal marking the end of his military career.

-

“Fifty upgrades,” Tony closes the back door after him.

Jim staggers a little upon landing and Tony catches him. “Fifty-one,” he bargains. “And an Aston Martin.”

“If I’m not bankrupt by the end of this.”

“I want chocolates and flowers,” Jim disables his helmet, nods at Sam and looks towards the cockpit where Natasha and Steve are.

Tony pats his shoulder, “Promise,” he says. “Love you.”

Jim looks at him and he tells him seriously, “After all that, you better.”

“Sorry bout your career,” Tony grimaces.

“Don’t bother.” And that would have been that. Except Tony is a self-loathing bastard who takes bath in self blames and crippling guilts every night so, Jim reassures, “Seriously. Ross cannot afford me.”

Tony smirks, “Nor me.”

“That’s just narcissism.”

“Seriously,” Tony grins. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim rolls his eyes, “Love you too. Now where’s the -,” He stops just when he spots the guy who changed all of their fate.

Bucky Barnes.


	12. Together

“Why he looks like that?” Rhodey asks.

Tony follows his gaze, landing on one very pale and stiff looking Bucky Barnes. “Shock?” He guesses. Hoping he’s only half right; hoping they wouldn’t see an ugly event unfold above the clouds.

Rhodey seems to agree, a pained sort of sound coming out of his throat. “I don’t know if I like the look of that."

“Nope you’re right. Let me -,” Tony starts, already searching for Barnes’ best pal, who apparently seems to be having some kind of hushed disagreement in with his 21st century bestie in the shadows of the jet. “... handle it, then.”

“Are you sure -,” Rhodey begins, concerned but Tony puts up a hand to that, stopping him with a smug smirk.

“Buckaroo and myself go further back than you know, platypus.”

In return, Rhodey gives him an unimpressed stare. “You worry me, you know?”

Tony grins. Rhodey jabs a gauntleted finger at him, “No, seriously. Do you know that you worry me? Cause if you don’t -,”

“I know,” Tony pats at his shoulder, grinning a mile with crow feet crinkling at the edges of his eyes. “Which means I'm doing my job right, Rhodes.”

And he knows from Rhodey’s scowling face that they’re both thinking about the same thing; MIT in 1985 as the background:

A hissed, _“You’ll be the death of me Tony Stark”_ met by a giggly, “ _Would be my absolute honour, Rhodey bear.”_

Rhodey shouldn’t have to worry at all, Tony thinks, sitting next to the lone assassin in the front most seat, and he takes his helmet off, placing it on his lap.

“I hope Wilson didn’t swing you too hard on the way here.” He rakes his fingers through his mussed hair, feeling the heat and sweat slowly untangle.

Natasha’s in the cockpit speaking quietly with Friday. Steve is still pulling faces with Sam and Rhodey’s now slumped in the last row of the seats; helmet back on, gauntleted fingers clenched in the V of his spread-out legs; probably checking on some updates after their big bad runaway.

Tony’s skin is still tingling from leftover adrenaline rush. He lets out a breath and turns to Barnes. “You all right?” He asks. This time waiting for answer which he receives in a form of stiff nod.

No looking in the eyes, shoulders are hard as rock and spine so straight it makes Tony’s back aches in sympathy. He swallows a wince and glances towards Steve. This should be Steve’s job; taking care of Barnes, making sure he’s okay.

Tony only signed up to free the guy from false accusations. Don’t know what the hell Wilson signed up for but Natasha and Rhodey, they didn’t sign up for any of this at all. Heck, they were so ready to turn leaves but look at where they all are now.

Responsibilities all jumbled up into a big mountain of trashy mess and guess they’re all just working where they can right now; not many choices from where they stand.

So, Tony puts a heavy hand on top of Barnes’ knee and says, “We’re all in this now, okay?”

Barnes turns, cold eyes staring right into Tony’s soul but Tony refuses to flinch. “As your best pal is so fond of saying: we’re doing this together,” and he tries for an assuring smile.

A few seconds pass, stretched long and taught making something red flicker in the back of his head, but Tony steadily ignores it. Finally, Barnes nods. No words still but guess it’ll suffice.

Tony nods back, and he gives two sturdy pats to Barnes’ lap. “Good.” He stands up. “Now I’ll go ask our Pilot where we’re heading to.”

“A safe house,” she says, when he finds her. Eyes hawk-like staring ahead even if all there is to be seen are clumps of clouds. She’s pissed.

“You’re pissed.” He asks, “Why are you pissed?”

A notification beeps on the control panel. Natasha jabs it close before Friday could announce it aloud.

Heaving out a sigh, Tony plops on the empty seat beside her. He spends a minute staring blankly ahead like her before he speaks again. “Is it Barton?”

“Are we only missing Barton?” Her answer comes clipped.

Realisation hits him like freight train; Vision and Wanda. “Shit." Tony inhales sharply.

“Always picking after you boys,” she bites. But there’s no venom behind it, just exhaustion.

Tony simply looks at her, taking in her accentuated profile, the rounded tip of her nose and her sharp eyebrows. He tells her, “I’ll get you new shoes.”

Her hard eyes soften, “Gonna need more than that, Shellhead,” and she nods at the front screen.

Tony turns, expecting more clouds but what he sees is clear blue sky stretching open to a darker blue ocean underneath kissing brown sand and right in the middle of an islet is a grand mansion.

Tony couldn’t help it; his lips purse into a pucker and he lets out a low appreciative whistle.

“If that is Fury, I’m billing all our expenses on his name from now on.”


End file.
